Time Signature
by Niko
Summary: E-mails between John and Mr. Sigerson. Post "The Reichenbach Fall".


From:  
>To: .uk<br>Sent: August 24 '12 19:08  
>Subject: Blog Update<p>

Dear Dr. Watson,

I have been an avid reader of your blog for quite some time now and am disappointed to see it no longer updated. I find myself frequenting the website even now, but for these last few months there has been nothing new said. Do post again.

Your fan,  
>James Sigerson<p>

From: .uk  
>To:<br>Sent: August 24 '12 16:34  
>Subject: RE:Blog Update<p>

Sherlock Holmes is dead. There will be no further updates.

-John Watson

From:  
>To: .uk<br>Sent: August 26 '12 05:18  
>Subject: RE:RE:Blog Update<p>

Dr. Watson,

I am very sorry to hear that. I had googled what I could. It's a huge disappointment. I don't mean just in that I will no longer get to follow his exploits but that he remains discredited even after all this time. Was there no full investigation? How could Mr. Holmes have solved cases as complex and out of his hands as the one about H.O.U.N.D. without being everything you said he was? If he was right in every instance that was beyond his ability to control, why say it was impossible to be that clever? I guess people see and hear what they want to. Sorry for being ignorant about this highly publicized ordeal. I've been abroad-have been for some time now.

It being your blog, why not write about yourself? There is at least one person I know who would be interested in continuing to follow the adventures of Dr. John Watson.

Your fan,  
>James Sigerson<p>

From: .uk  
>To:<br>Sent: August 26 '12 09:26  
>Subject: RE:RE:RE:Blog Update<p>

Mr. Sigerson,

Nothing happens to Dr. John Watson. Nothing worth writing about, nothing worth reading about, nothing whatsoever. Dr. John Watson works, eats, and sometimes even manages to sleep before starting over again the next day. I'd much rather that blog remain as it is with content that actually matters.

I suppose there is something to be said about Sherlock being just a national hero-turned-disgrace instead of a widely publicized international fraud. There was an inquiry, yes. Enough clients came forward to verify his genius to keep me from sharing criminal charges as accomplice. The papers could care less; page nine of the Sun. Formally, Sherlock will be acquitted of all charges once bureaucracy runs its course. I'll write about that once it's final.

Thank you for believing in him. It wouldn't matter to him one way or the other but it's good to know some people in this world still know how to think and aren't so scared of brilliance as to not call it what it is.

-John Watson

From:  
>To: .uk<br>Sent: September 14 '12 12:15  
>Subject: Your Recent Entry<p>

Dr. Watson,

I read your latest blog entry. Very poetic. It struck me as interesting how even in your obvious grief your literary voice remains consistent. Your feelings for your subject are unwavering; your dedication is admirable. Congratulations on the acquittal.

I'm pleased to have found WiFi here in Tibet. Florence was much more technologically accommodating. I think people abroad use cafes as places to actually eat. How dull. Presently I find myself wondering what comes next for Dr. John Watson now that Sherlock Holmes has been laid to rest in all applicable terms. Biographer or doctor? What will you do now with yet another fresh start?

By and by, how is the weather there? I feel a bit homesick for England and her grey masque. Must be roasting.

Your fan,  
>James Sigerson<p>

From: .uk  
>To:<br>Sent: September 14 '12 15:31  
>Subject: RE:Your Recent Entry<p>

Mr. Sigerson,

If you miss an English summer, you really have been abroad for some time indeed. As for the entry, I had tried not be be poetic but it seems I failed at that. I knew him as such an irritating prat that perhaps I try too hard to make him seem human, forgetting that to most people he was seen in an already somewhat censored or biased light. I just don't want what the papers last reported of him to be the Sherlock Holmes that's left to be remembered. But, hey, some guy in Tibet knows Sherlock was on the side of good. Guess I should be pleased at the distance such news travels even if the multitude who hear are sparse.

If you want a nice, fairy tale ending, Dr. John Watson becomes an acclaimed physician, falls in love, gets married, and has two kids and two dogs. Let's leave it at that, shall we?

-John Watson

From:  
>To: .uk<br>Sent: September 15 '12 03:11  
>Subject: RE:RE:Your Recent Entry<p>

Dr. Watson,

It's your blog; your life and your story goes on beyond the death of Sherlock Holmes. Do you assume your audience doesn't care about the rest or is it more that you yourself no longer care? Your tone makes it seem the latter. That's no way to be thinking, John.

I lost someone recently. He's part of the reason I'm out here now instead of back at home. Even though there are things I would like to do, the things I have to do have to come first. It doesn't make me miss my friend any less. It makes me miss him more sometimes. Even in strange places, I still find myself talking to him, forgetting he couldn't come with me. I'm accustomed to being alone but this is the first I've felt lonely. Better to be alone with his memory than both of us cease to exist, though. That's the way this game works. It's the same game you're playing now.

My friend and I both enjoyed the content of your blog. That is probably why it means so much to me to see you continue it. The fond memories are a great comfort to me in my travels. If you worry about what the audience you have will expect or think, then perhaps you will do me this favor alone: write to me. I'm many miles from home with no connection to the things I left. You were a soldier; you know what it is like. I could use a friend again. Of what I know of you, I'd say you could use a friend too.

Tibet is boring; more boring than Florence. This assignment seems set on sending me to the dullest of places. I nearly killed a man three weeks ago en route but now that I am here it is the epitome of serenity-as would be expected. My wounds have healed themselves: bullet graze to the left bicep, marginal penetration, a slight concussion from leaping off a moving train and a sprained left knee. Could have used a good doctor at my side. I envy Sherlock Holmes of that luxury. He must have relied on you for a great many things.

My WiFi access is still limited. I will reply to you again once I reach my next stop.

Your Friend,  
>James Sigerson<p>

From: .uk  
>To:<br>Sent: September 15 '12 16:34  
>Subject: RE:RE:RE:Your Recent Entry<p>

Mr. Sigerson,

I'll never understand why it is that people feel they have to be able to relate to someone's grief. I'm sorry you lost a friend but mutual loss is hardly grounds for a friendship. Have you ever been to one of those meetings? Those group help sessions where everyone talks about how they feel and what losing someone is like to them and how they're managing. It's disgusting. It's a mass of people looking for validation for feeling sad or depressed or angry. There's no 'help', there's just a jump in sales for tissue. There's nothing gratifying in knowing other people are miserable too. As selfish as it sounds, I don't care about how upset you are or how much you miss your friend. All I care about is me and what I lost and how I feel. And honestly, as far as validation goes, I'm pretty sure it's the same for everyone but we're all just trained to pretend it's not. The only reason you think you care about what I'm dealing with is because you think you know me. You don't. Dr. John Watson is a character in a story to you. Trust me, I am more upset than you ever will be that that story has ended.

What exactly is it that you do that would have you leaping from a moving train? You mentioned me being a soldier; are you in the forces? I wasn't aware we had anything going on in Tibet that would involve gunshots and rail skirmishes. Secret service? I can see where the draw towards Sherlock's adventures would be for someone like you. I recommend using your limited WiFi to locate a good thriller to read. You'll find much more to your liking there than you will from me.

-John Watson

From:  
>To: .uk<br>Sent: September 30 '12 08:15  
>Subject: Update<p>

John,

According to the tracking system, you should have received my package today. I found it at a local shop; a souvenir from the far east. Red is meant to represent bravery, intelligence, and the ability to use strategy to conquer or advise others. I thought it appropriate.

I'm almost finished here in Tibet. I had hoped it would mean I could soon return to England. That is not the case. I'm off to Iran. Closer, at least. For obvious reasons, I cannot tell you what it is I do but your imagination is sufficient in detailing for you the level of danger and secrecy that my work entails. I would like to tell you about the time I spent a week trailing a man with one nostril through Lhassa but sadly I cannot. Perhaps when this place is far behind me. I'm not much of a storyteller but with the proper audience I might be willing to impart a few details in order of events if you would be so kind as to do the same. What is England like? Have the rains stopped? The characters as you called them-Mrs. Hudson, Detective Inspector Lestrade, Molly, you-what are they up to? I've a long trip ahead of me. Regale me before I depart with something of interest.

Your friend,  
>James<p>

From: .uk  
>To:<br>Sent: September 30 '12 22:58  
>Subject: RE:Update<p>

Mr. Sigerson,

Don't send me things. It's creepy. That mask is creepy. This whole situation is very odd though I suppose I should thank you for reminding me that my address is quite accessible thanks to his website. I should consider myself lucky to have enjoyed as much privacy as I have since returning.

I'm not going to tell you about any of them. I've seen the dangers in talking about others with strangers. I have no desire to be someone elses' Mycroft. But since you keep asking, fine; I'll tell you about me.

I go to therapy once a week and my therapist hates me for the obvious reason that I go and see her but generally refuse to answer her questions or do anything she tells me to. I tried group therapy once and nearly gave myself alcohol poisoning afterward. She asks me almost every week why I still come. I think it's just my way of trying to prove to myself that I'm trying. It took me nearly two weeks just to be able to say his name out loud without sounding utterly pathetic. My therapist wrote down 'unresolved homosexuality'. The whole bleeding country thinks that, though, so why should someone I pay to be on my side say otherwise? I hate her, I hate going, but it feels good to keep commitments so I keep making appointments and going in to see her and wasting our time and my money.

I found more permanent work at a small clinic in London. I'm lucky that if his name isn't in the same sentence, most people don't recognize me on paper. Without him standing beside me, most people don't recognize me by sight either. I could have gotten in at Barts but something about working in the building outside which my best friend took his own life turned me off it. The clinic is dull and pays poorly but Sherlock's brother pays my rent. I hate it for its necessity but I know Sherlock would have taken some delight in profiting off his brother's guilt. I'm a kept man now; I don't have to worry about anything anymore expect for boredom and depression. Staving off either is almost a full-time occupation in itself. I write but I do not write things I would ever share. I got accustomed to writing is all. It just feels like something I should be doing with my time.

My family calls and my sister's been down. The friends I have either feel in some way responsible for what happened or think I need my space. I do blame Lestrade to some degree; less than I do Mycroft but more than I do myself. I tried blaming Sherlock and pretending his death had some benefits but that turned out to be just as hard to believe. Women love a broken man but only so long as they think they can fix him. I have never had so much interest shown me at a bar in all my life and neither have I had so little interest in pursuing any of them. I am so sick of pity. I am sick of condolences and well wishes and sympathy and stories that begin with 'I know how you feel'. When a soldier returns, civilians don't bother to try and relate to them because it's understood that they just can't. I don't know why people think they can relate to the loss of a loved one as though it's something less personal. And you know what else? The competition is unbelievable. "Oh, lost a friend have you? I lost my mother." Well, fantastic, have a tissue. I once heard someone reply with a whole list of all the close family members they had had die in the past five years as a comeback. Sherlock being my 'friend' immediately discredits the magnitude of my loss to these sorts of people because he wasn't my mother. And these people make up the majority of London.

I watch an embarrassing amount of telly these days. And I am so used to his stupid remarks that sometimes my mind fills them in and I laugh and I smile and I'm the happiest I've been all day because it's the one time remembering doesn't hurt. And that's life.

Your life, obviously, has much more of interest going on. Yes, it rains almost constantly. Enjoy your trip. Leave me alone.

-John Watson

From:  
>To: .uk<br>Sent: October 8 '12 12:13  
>Subject: Hello<p>

John,

Greetings from Tajikistan. Attached is a photo from the caravan. It is hotter than hell. Got shot at again but no wounds this time. It's difficult working with the proper authorities when trying to keep a low profile. In all honesty, writing to you about these things is dangerous and stupid of me. A lot of the things I find myself doing these days are a little of both of those, however. This is the single luxury I afford myself.

It has of recent become known to me what loss does to one's mental state. Some of the greatest lies we tell ourselves are revealed in grief. You loved him, John. I don't think sexuality has any part in it, however. Sexuality is a more lustful term, it defines our desires and distractions. Love is a far more intellectual thing. Love broken down to its simplest elements is understanding, acceptance, and respect. There's no shame in two men understanding each other, accepting each other and respecting each other. Most people are too fascinated by sex to see beyond the carnal aspects of humanity. You yourself are not immune to it but that's to be expected; you're a product of society. I wouldn't be too hard on yourself or others for alluding to love, though. Romance, maybe, but not love.

I find it admirable. I aspire to as much in my own life.

Today it's sunny. The wind is strong. The dust smells like burnt olives and parmesan. A little rain would be nice. Telly here is pointless. This is probably the least bored I have ever been and yet I keep thinking about being back home where I would likely just sat around on the couch drinking tea. I hate that kind of life, the normal kind. Always have. That's why I've ended up in Tajikistan. It's not fun this time, though. Not like it used to be.

I'm going to get a remote WiFi link; it should make it much easier to keep in touch. Satellite up-links aren't the most secure so I may change my e-mail address from time to time to at least utilize a different server exchange. I'll get anything you send me regardless.

Stiff upper lip, John. You'll be alright, even if it hurts like hell. We both will be.

Your friend,  
>James<p>

From: .uk  
>To:<br>Sent: October 8 '12 15:46  
>Subject: RE:Hello<p>

James,

You just don't give up, do you?

Tajikistan looks like a nicer version of what I remember from that area. Been a long time since I've seen mountains like that. I served in Afghanistan but I guess you know that. I remember the way the dust tasted there. It's odd how you remember some things but not others. I forgot about the mountains. I forgot about the color of the grass. I remember hating the view from my station. The mountains were just beige eyesores. Not like in the photo. I think I saw them beautiful maybe once. Hope you enjoy Iran once you get there. Strange route btw. Guess it's not up to you how you get there.

It's very weird to talk to a complete stranger about Sherlock. I don't even talk that openly to my therapist and I'm paying her. I swear, if I find out you're actually a reporter, I will kill you. What you said though, about that stuff, maybe you're not so wrong. I know what I feel just as strongly as I know I'm not gay. I'm not physically attracted to men. Never have been. Never will be. But Sherlock wasn't even _human_ in some respects. He was, obviously he was, and he was even starting to behave like it but Sherlock was just... Sherlock. As much as I rationalize it I just end up pushing it further and further away but you're right. About that. Maybe other things too but about _that_I think yes. And if not right, then the closest anyone has ever gotten to getting it right. Which is really something coming from someone I've never met.

Mrs. H hates the mask, btw. It's the first time I think she's ever said something positive about the skull in comparison. Bravo. Guess you're not exactly stationary or maybe I'd send you some Jaffas or a tin of Digestives. When I was stationed, I could have murdered for a decent biscuit some nights. Or a recognizable beer. The things we take for granted, ey?

Going out with some mates tonight. Looking to get utterly pissed. Hope you get a chance to relax on your travels.

-John

From: .com  
>To: .uk<br>Sent: October 10 '12 05:19  
>Subject: Afghanistan<p>

John,

Took a detour to Afghanistan. Just to see. My friend served there. I never asked much about it, not really interested in knowing the details, but here I am. I'm not the sentimental type but I will admit it felt somewhat good to be in a place he had once been. I have no way of really knowing what ground he stood on but thousands of miles away it's still common soil. I feel for my friend as you feel for yours. Strange place to find any sort of connection to that life.

I get the feeling I should not have come here. It's not part of what I have to do. It's pure sentiment and that sort of allowance is going to get people killed. It's irrational of me. I try to be a rational man.

Until I manage to get a satellite up-link, I'm going to have to go dark for a while. Write to me anyway. There's no harm in my receiving messages but sending them may complicate matters.

My cell number is 020 8616 5555. If it seems like it's been too long, text me only. If I'm okay, I'll reply quickly.

Your friend,  
>James<p>

From: .uk  
>To: .com<br>Sent: October 10 '12 14:09  
>Subject: RE:Afghanistan<p>

James,

I am extremely curious what it is you are doing. Are you sure we should be writing at all if it's so dangerous? Seems like a pointless risk.

I won't bore you with stories of my service years. They're the same as with just about any other army doctor. I got shot and sent back is the only real difference. Maybe I should see if they'd take me back now that the limp is cleared up. I say cleared up. Now and then it's like it used to be, before Sherlock decided on his own what was really wrong and proved himself right yet again. I think sometimes that there is not one part of me that doesn't in some way betray me when Sherlock is involved. It's a ridiculous trend. Going on four months, now. Feels longer.

You know the case "A Study in Pink"? I omitted a lot from my write up. After Sherlock left me at the crime scene, his brother-who happens to be one of the most powerful men in the free world-had me picked up and interrogated in an abandoned car-park. I didn't know who he was; he said he was Sherlock's arch rival and I thought he must be some kind of evil mastermind. I stood my ground against him, took Sherlock's side even though I'd only been in his company a few hours by that point. "Very loyal, very quickly," Mycroft said. It's true. I can't explain why. My therapist said I had trust issues and there I was, positive I was in some kind of danger, and rather than follow any survival instinct I was defending Sherlock and my relationship with him which wasn't anything past chance acquaintance. And the gunman who took out the taxi driver? It was me. I killed a man to protect Sherlock just hours after meeting him. _Hours_. And then we had takeaway. And that, none of that, seemed the least bit odd to me at the time. Because it wasn't odd to him either. Best friends from inception. How does that even happen? How can two people just meet and everything be perfect?

Okay, Sherlock would be wining about me romanticizing that. Not perfect as in nothing was ever wrong because that would be boring anyway. Perfect as in like... harmonious. Plenty of bad to make the good feel good and just enough conflict to make sure life was interesting. Lots of evenings just being mates, sitting in the flat, playing games or watching movies so even the dangerous bits kept their high. I woke up every morning without a thought given to how my day would go because no matter what, it was going to be okay. Life has never been like that for me outside those eighteen months. I'm not even sure it's supposed to be like that for anyone.

I did more with my life in the few short hours we spent together on our first evening as flatmates than I have in all the years before I met him and the months since his death combined. That is mental. That is what Sherlock does. Did. Four months and I still can't get that right.

I don't really remember what my point was in all that. The stuff in my blog, that's all true. Sometimes it's not worth it to tell every detail. Lots of times there are legal reasons why I can't say everything. If anything, I've downplayed how frighteningly brilliant he was and how large an effect he had on me.

I still can't say it. Not even sure I want to. No point in it. Changes nothing.

Wow, this is long and boring.

Keep your head covered and your eyes open.  
>-John<p>

From: .uk  
>To: .com<br>Sent: October 24 '12 21:47  
>Subject: RE:Afghanistan<p>

Pulled at the bar. Brought the girl back to my flat. She recognized the damned deer stalker. Asked if I was a fanboy. Said Sherlock was a disgusting charlatan. Kicked her out onto the street without another word. Am pissed. Still care too much what others think.

Don't you be dead too. There's enough dead people around.  
>-John<p>

From: .com  
>To: .uk<br>Sent: October 26 '12 12:09  
>Subject: Quite Well<p>

John,

I'm in Norway. Finally settled down long enough to get a satellite up-link and a secure connection.

I'm hunting, John. It is both a personal and professional task I undertake. There is an organization which has targeted not only myself but those close to me. They are the reason why I am alone now. I cannot hope to live what was my normal life until I ensure that their threat is neutralized. Luckily, as wide spread as they are, communication between them seems to be rather slow and not well transmitted. I've taken care of several international cells already through. It was somewhat amusing at first. I'm bored now. None of my associates are entertaining. I think the military does its best to weed out personality during the conditioning process. Lucky you weren't damaged long term by it.

I'm not sure how much longer I'll have to be abroad. We hit them hard and fast but maybe not fast enough. They're going into hiding. It'll make it that much more time consuming even if only marginally more difficult. I believe, though, that it is better to keep at it until it is done than to return home and live wary. For the sake of those closest to me. I can't tell them, though. I can't explain to them where I am or what I'm doing. I fear it will endanger them more than I already have done. But I don't want to cause them pain with my absence either.

It's called a Catch 22 I believe. No matter what I do, I will inevitably hurt someone. It would be easier not to care but that is hardly an option. What do you think, John? In which way am I less damned?

Your friend,  
>James<p>

From: .uk  
>To: .com<br>Sent: October 26 '12 16:34  
>Subject: RE:Quite Well<p>

James,

Good to hear you're alright.

Feels like I'm talking to the real life James Bond. First a consulting detective and now some secret agent. I seem to find myself acquainted with very interesting people.

My advise? Don't do anything to involve innocent people. It's not the kind of guilt you want to live with. It's easier for other people to forgive you; it's harder to forgive yourself. Your friends and loved ones will understand when you finally come home. That's what makes them your friends and loved ones. Even if it's hard, it's not worth it in the end. You can mend hurt feelings but you can't fix dead. Sometimes it sucks to be the hero. I gatta say I respect you for what you're doing, though. It's not the sort of thing I'd want to be caught up in.

Sorry for going on like a prat. Someone needs to take my laptop away when I've had a few. I get started writing and I don't stop. In my defense, you did ask me to. Sounds like you've got more than enough going on without me whingeing on, though.

Seeing as I'm in London, there anything I can do? I could send a message or something if you'd like. Let me know.

-John

From: .com  
>To: .uk<br>Sent: October 26 '12 22:05  
>Subject: :19<p>

John,

Thank you. I think I'll take your advice. For now.

I have been sending messages, actually. A simple substitution cipher. I guess it was too simple. I don't think they've been noticed. That's alright. It's not important. What is important is that I take care of the threat.

It's late. I'll write again when I have something useful to say.

Your friend,  
>James<p>

* * *

><p>sort of bastardized the format. Look for it on AO3 for a readable version.<p>

If you figure out the cipher, let me know. If you can't, no worries, he'll explain it all some other time.


End file.
